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Chapter 7

Voldemort stood toward the center of his study, straight backed, one arm across his chest with his other hand tucked under his chin, supporting his thoughts. He considered the glowing orb he had suspended at the room's center. This was the source of his irritation at the moment. He had finished with Severus several hours ago and had since remained in his study mulling over the orb before him.

He moved in a circle around the orb in question and allowed his magic to flow out once more; directed it to wash over the orb and intermingle with the residual magic attached to the Prophecy. He could feel it, just at the edges, nearly intangible yet still detectable to those who had the ability to sense and read magical signatures. Voldemort pulled his own magic back in and tore his gaze from the sphere, widening his circle. He could feel two signatures attached to the orb, one significantly stronger than the other, and he was quite familiar with the dominating magic. He assumed the smaller source was that of the unspeakable whose magic spun the sphere around the ghostly memory.

He thought back to the information that Rookwood had given him regarding the process in which the prophecies were recorded. When a prophecy was given it did not immediately appear in the hall of prophecy but must be filed and recorded through the memory of the one who the prophecy was spoken to. This was one point that the man stressed when reporting him on the process, the prophecy can only be recorded from the memory of the recipient of the prophecy. Due to the nature of the Hall of Prophecy and magic involved in creating the spheres, the recordings only held when paired with the memory of the recipient of the prophecy.

When Voldemort questioned the man further on the matter he was unable to answer in specifics of the process, nor could he say why the magics were so specific in the recordings. The Hall of Prophecy was a restricted area within the Department of Mysteries and Rookwood's focus had not been within the Hall. Prior to his forced seclusion, the need for Rookwood in the department had been strongest in the study of magical developments. The ministry had taken to implementing tighter laws and regulations on the practices of spell creation and magical development, thus severely limiting the ability of the magical population of Britain to independently further magical development.

This was another thorn in his side of the current Ministry rule. The Ministry maintained a firm grip on the magical population and did so in such a way that very few people were even aware of the strangle hold. It seemed the only ones who realized the extent to which they were limited were the Dark families, and this was only because their family rituals and ceremonies were the most highly regulated and restricted by Ministry law. Those families, like the Malfoys and the Notts, had reverted their arts to the shadows, as Ministry has furthered its reach over the nation, and taken to practicing them behind closed doors. Hiding as if their heritage were something to be ashamed of. It sickened him, how deeply the world had fallen through the years. How the wizarding community become a static society that was comfortable in its own mediocrity. Voldemort scoffed, he was getting off track, and pushed the thoughts aside for another time.

When Severus first brought the Prophecy to his attention his sole focus had been on the elimination of the threat, and he failed to perform the research he normally would have done to ensure the authenticity of the Prophecy. Now though…now he had more insight into the Hall of Prophecy. Since his return he had delved deeply into several areas he had been neglecting in his mental decline, and he had held a particular interest in the recordkeeping practices of prophecies and their properties. When he had pulled Rookwood and the others out of Azkaban he had allowed time for the man's mind to recover from the dementor exposure before questioning him, again, on the Hall of Prophecy. He had hoped that by questioning Rookwood once more he could find a track to center his research on. Even if the man had little information to offer himself, the possibility existed that he could find some source of insight he had previously overlooked in the man's limited knowledge pool.

In speaking with Rookwood, the man was unable to communicate anything of value; however, slipping gentle into the man's mind he was able to search out the information he needed. While his Death Eater had no conscious knowledge concerning the containment of prophecies he did know of an Unspeakable who could prove useful in his research.

From Rookwood's memories the man was advanced in his years, even older than the old fool, and when he first learned of the Unspeakable he grew concerned that the man would have already been in the ground. Thankfully the Unspeakable had survived over the ten years that Rookwood had spent within the prison. Though he had removed himself so far from society that finding the man in question was more difficult than he would have liked. Jacobus Erstwyl was an intelligent and formidable man, proven by his success within his particular field. The man had once been the prominent inside the Ministry both inside and out of his Unspeakable role. Erstwyl had been a known name through the halls of the ministry for generations and Jacobus, himself, was highly respected for his role in the Wizengamot. His knowledge of the law was extensive and often lead prominent family heads seeking his opinion, though his contributions in the Department of Mysteries were kept silent outside of the reclusive department. In fact, many of those prominent families who had sought out Erstwyl's opinion so fastidiously had no knowledge of the man's role inside the department, and very few within the Department had known that Erstwyl had been the man within the robe.

Voldemort had known of the man's role through Rookwood's own status within the Department, yet he had held little use for Erstwyl's knowledge at the time. He had forgotten until he had looked into Rookwood's mind and cursed himself for both his insanity of the past and stupidity of the present. Erstwyl was high in the department, at the time the Prophecy was given, and could have been of great assistance in gathering information. He shook his head frowning slightly, thankfully the man was still able to be of use and provide him with the information he needed.

Voldemort smiled sharply. Erstwyl had been a gold mine, though digging through the dirt to reach the prize had take great care and patience. The man had been a deadly snake hidden in the grass, and a true Slytherin to his death. He had retired himself outside the Wizarding world so far that it had taken several months and a few disturbing trips through the mind of muggles to locate him. His age as reached greater then 150, and to all appearances he seemed a frail and tired old man who was ready for his peaceful retreat. How appearances can be deceiving. His wards were of a complex and forgotten art and his mental barriers were as tight as Voldemort's own. Erstwyl gave no verbal answer to his inquirers, no matter how…politely he had asked. In the end it had taken a few weeks of painstakingly picking through the man's mental shields while ensuring no mental damage occurred.

It was maddening and required a greater control over his own temperament than he had exercised in a long while. Though the results had largely contributed refining his forceful Legilimency skills. He had forgotten that sometime a subtle and precision infiltration in the mind arts can yield greater results than a vicious barrage, the ease with which he dismantled Severus's barriers were a testament to that.

He continued his circles around the orb, remembering the information he had taken from the man's mind. When a Seer recites a prophecy within the boards of Britain, a file is created within the Hall of Prophecy alerting the Unspeakables to the time, date, the Seer and the Recipient. The recipient will then be written, asking for their presence within the department inside a 24-hour period. The next step involved removing the memory of the event form the mind of the recipient, then transferring it into the recently formed sphere thus securing the record in a tangible form. The Prophecy is then transferred to the shelf where the warding spells preventing anyone, who was not the subject, from removing the prophecy from the shelf.

Continuing further, Voldemort had learned that there was innate power behind the words spoken by Seers and when prophecies are spoken that power particle transfers into a single individual, existing in the memory of the recipient. Furthermore, when the Unspeakables create the spheres in which the recordings are held they use a sand grain similar to the one found in the time turners. The process involves superheating the grains with a contained form of Fiendfyre and transferring the memory of the recipient to the Orb before the glass cools. With the magical properties of the grain the Orbs require a catalyst, or the sphere would collapse after cooling thus breaking down the memory confined within. According to the research of the Unspeakables in the Hall of Prophecy, that catalyst exists in the memory of the direct recipient.

Voldemort halted in his circles, eyes moving back to the orb and took a step closer. The magics, both signatures, should flow smoothly through the sphere. I did not. It was miniscule, almost unnoticeable but the magics within this sphere stuttered slightly, a hiccup and not in the smaller magical signature but in the larger one, in Dumbledore's magical signature.

That is what was drawing in his curiosity most heavily. What was the stuttering? From his understanding there was little to no ability to manipulate a prophecy when spoken but knowing the old man as he does the possibility cannot be discounted. He hummed and released his magic again seeking out the flaws in the essence of the sphere. His magic bypassed the hard surface of the glass as if it were water and mingled with the greater magic within, he could feel his magic combing through the minute tangles presented. He pulled at the tangles of magic trying to figure out exactly the source of the flaw and sighed when they held firm. The old man was hiding something, something that concerned him enough to modify official ministry records and that was enough to raise his own.

His magic continued its roving, looking for that stray piece that could lead him to unravel the whole and…there. So small that had he not been continually feeding his magic into the orb before him it would have been missed. A stray stand left, by less than a millimeter, floating lightly in the magic's stream. He tugged at it and… nothing…he pushed more force behind his magical strands, gripping gentle enough to avoid damage but also firmly enough to effect change. His magic connected more firmly and seemed to fuse with that inside the sphere.

The old man's magic was detestable to the touch, he could feel it throughout his entire being and it sickened him. The magic coiled, cold and slick, slipping around his own like a parasite looking to settle a new home, it felt like the magic had a will of its own and hoped to devour his in turn. He sneered at the feeling of it and pushed back, he would not allow a detached piece of the old fool to overpower his own magical reserves. He continued to push against the force of the magic and felt it when the pressure began to lessen then retreat back from his own. He smirked and pushed harder grabbing onto the loose strand of magic and giving a forceful tug and internally rejoiced as the microscopic stutters in the magic opened and flowed into a more even stream.

Voldemort stepped back from the sphere and allowed his magic to return to him, leaving the old man's behind. He directed it to brush against the outside of the sphere activating the Orb, the bespectacled form of the abysmal Seer rose from within…

"The one with the ability to match the Dark Lord approaches…born the those who have thrice defied him…born as the seventh month dies. And that Dark Lord will mark him as his equal for he has powers of which he knows not…and together they stand against those who oppose them, joined by experiences unfelt and unknown…offering adaptations of new from the old…the one with the power to match the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"

Voldemort froze where he stood, this had not been what he was expecting. He had felt the flaws in the magic but figured the changes would have been closer to bolstering the abilities of the supposed "savior" and not that the said "savior" was not a savior at all but that the boy could be more in line with his own beliefs, his…equal? He still had his doubts about that point, regardless of its place in both versions. Though he did wonder what power the boy could possibly have which could place him on par with himself…this again raised his interest in the boy as it presented a mystery to be unraveled.

He absently strode back to the center of the room grasping the Prophecy as he moved past and depositing it on the desk before him. This left even more to consider than before, he had been set up from the beginning. Manipulated in his instability and he fell for it beautifully. He had to, begrudgingly, respect the tactic the old man had taken. Dumbledore had taken what should have been a great asset to his movement and distorted it to suit his own purposes…

He stilled once more…Severus… at the time the man had been firmly in his pocket, or so he believed, then how was it that the words the man had given him reflected the altered prophecy. Anger crashed over him once more…how long had the man been working against him? It made no sense, from what he had taken from the man's mind his loyalties had shifted because of his targeting of the boy and in effect his mother. He would need to look into that the next time the man presented himself.

Voldemort sat down behind his desk, closed his eyes and pinched his nose in frustration; there were too many pieces to this puzzle and he should have seen the false lines ages ago. He raised his head and looked towards the clock. It was nearing five, Potter should be waking in a few hours and he was quite looking forward to playing with the boy some more.

XXX

Harry slowly felt himself rising from the depths of encompassing blackness. His entire being felt sluggish as if he was wading through a pool of thickened pudding. He felt his nerves tingling and sparking in bursts of muted pain from events he could only vaguely grasp. He tried opening his eyes and felt the heaviness in his lids fighting back. After a brief battle the darkness lifted, and the fuzziness began to recede, revealing an unfamiliar and sparsely furnished room. In fact, as he looked around the room, the only piece of furniture that seemed to be present was the bed he was currently laying on.

He searched his memory for how he had gotten here…and came up blank. This was not new to him due to his seemingly endless stream of visits to the hospital wing. What was raising his nerves though was the fact that the last conversation he could remember having was with the source of everything his mind was trying to block. He allowed himself to sit up and groaned as his body complained. Slowly he pushed himself back against the headboard, looking for the support he could not hold on his own. Leaning back, he realized the effort to move had him breathing heavily and he grimaced at the stiffness he felt in his body.

The potion Voldemort had forced him to take had been, somewhat, of a blessing at the time but now he could feel the muted effects slowly draining from his system. In some ways he would have preferred the shakes and contractions when compared to this gradually building soreness he was now feeling as his muscles seemed to slowly waken from a forced incapacitation. He lifted his hand to his head looking for some release from a steady throbbing, which was worsened by the light filtering through a broad window and stabbing at his eyes; Harry closed them trying to block it all out. Maybe when he opened them he would find himself in his room at the Dursley's, even that hell would be better than being where he was now.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes again squinting slightly to lessen light hitting him so strongly. He looked around and felt like a blow landed in his stomach. It was the same room, modestly sized (yet still bigger than his room at the Dursley's) and with nothing more than the bed he sat on. Glancing around he noted the broad window once more and realized, in his second look, it was actually a set of double doors that lead to a moderate balcony. Though he was sure that the chances of the doors opening would non-existent, what with the lack of handles and the fact that they seemed to have been sealed at the seam. Apart from that there were another two doors, one directly across from the foot of the bed and the other on the wall to his left.

There was no question in his mind that none of these doors would open for him and he knew it was pointless to try but knew he would anyway. He pushed himself to the edge of the bed moving slowly because of the stiffness he felt. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten then pushed himself up. He walked slowly towards the door on the left and reached out his hand to grasp the handle, expecting to feel the cool brass against his fingers…there was nothing. His hand closed on air as it passed through the knob like there was nothing there. He stared…his hand was fisted seemingly inside the handle, the handle he was sure was there, he could feel a smoky coolness surrounding his closed fist and when he removed his hand from within the depths of the smoke it reformed into the shined handle with light reflecting off its mirrored surface. He continued to stare and reached out once more for the handle he was sure existed, and it turned again to smoke. It was as if the metal became… an apparition when it came in contact with his skin

There was a low clicking that caused him to snap his head around, a move he regretted almost instantly as the pain shot through his body from the action and nearly caused his to fall from an added lack of balance. He closed his eye to regain his bearings and after a moment he was able to open them. He found himself staring in shock. He knew who the man before him was but still could not connect this appearance to the murder of his parents.

In the doorway stood a strongly built man of approximately six feet in height, curled brown hair fell gracefully around his face, just long enough to brush the back of his neck. A nose had appeared beneath two sharp brows and above full lips, which were quirked up in an uncharacteristic smile, even his skin had changed from sickly pale to a firm alabaster. The only characteristic that would have alerted someone to the monster lurking beneath were the red eyes. This was the reflection of Tom Riddle he had met in the Chamber, this was the reflection of the man who could have existed before his explorations into the dark arts deteriorated his being…

Harry's mental process came to a screeching halt. Where had that though come from? Why would it matter what Voldemort looked like or what he could have been without losing himself? This was his reality, he was the captive of the man who murdered his parents. A man who was a known sociopath and sadist, his goals was total domination of the wizarding world and subjugation of the muggle population. His appearance had little effect on that facts of his situation.

The man's smirk broadened "Well Harry, I see you have regained some of your lost strength. Tell me," he continues as he strode across the room, leaning against the wall beside the balcony door "have you had the opportunity to discover how the wards are laid?"

Harry glared at the man then back to the offending knob. Voldemort chuckled lowly "Yes Harry the door and the knob are really there, however your ability to touch them is… well let's just say to you the doors are intangible." He flashed his teeth in a mocking way. "This applies to both doors in this room and, as I hope you noticed, this apparent window will also not be opening to your touch." He pushed off the wall and made his way across the room circling Harry like bird of prey.

"No one else has access to this room, no one else even remembers this room exists." Voldemort stopped directly behind Harry. He stood in the limited space between Harry and the wall, close enough for Harry to feel the man's body heat pressing against him. As he next spoke the man's breath ghosted across the back of his neck, causing him to shiver in discomfort "You will not be leaving this room Harry and soon the Order will realize that no opening will exist for your rescue. They will fail and move on from their attempts, their concerns gracing other needs in the war."

Harry closed his eyes wanting nothing more than to turn and hit the man…no monster behind him. He hated how little control he currently had, how little control he had always had in his own life. No matter where he was it seemed he had no ability to make any of the decisions for his own life. Dumbledore, the Dursley's, Voldemort, even at Hogwarts his decisions were all controlled by those around him. The Dursley's never gave him a modicum of freedom, his life was controlled from sunrise to sunset with whichever chores they felt would take the most time. Often times they made him redo them to meet their unrealistic expectations or Dudley would come be and destroy any work he accomplished forcing him to start over again…and again. Dumbledore had also made decisions from afar, distancing himself from Harry as he offered his sage advice, which was never simply the advice the man made it out to be, but more along the lines of a veiled expectation.

At least when he was at school he had an illusion of his own choices; in reality though it was just that, an illusion. Every decision he had every made would be reviewed by everyone around him and judged regardless of how insignificant. In the end his decisions always fell to what the light's savior should do, or how he should act. Now though even that illusion had disappeared, and he was back to feeling as if he was back at the Dursley's, or under the headmaster's thumb, forced to act on Voldemort's barest whim. He hated it.

He clinched his fists in his anger and felt his magic beginning to build inside him. No matter what he did, where he went, his life would never be his own. Someone would always be behind the curtain pulling the strings as if her were a mindless puppet, and he was tired of it. His magic began to stir within him, growing with every passing moment, breaching the tight controls he never even knew were present. In his anger he never even realized the charge in the air around him, the way his hair began to stand on end, his bangs lifting in an unnatural breeze, and more than that he failed to notice the way in which Voldemort took a step back eyes staring in surprise at the unprecedented power radiating from the boy.

XXX

Voldemort's mind wnet blank at the boy before him. This was an unexpected development, he had never felt this level of magic come from him, in truth he had seldom felt this much magical power pulsing off a single individual, not counting Dumbledore's or his own abilities. It was…unexpected to say the least. He moved back around the boy stopping in front of him, feeling his magic pressing and pushing against his own. The boy's hair was dancing above his forehead, his eyes seemed to be glowing in time with his pulses of magic yet also eerily empty as if his mind disconnected to the world around him.

The pulsing continued, growing in strength as time passed. He felt as Harry's magic grew, and the windows rattled. The bed creaked as the force of the boy's magic pushed against the old grains. Enough was enough, while Potter's display was impressive his lack of control was not. The boy seemed lost as he broke through his self-restraints, unable to root himself in reality as his mind and emotions were running rampant.

Voldemort increased his own magical output and the feelings of clashing magic began crackling within the room, a seeming storm brewing in previous calm. The boy's magic was strong, he would admit, but raw power would only go so far, especially when placed against an equal power base with the added advantage of control.

He continued to watch the boy as their magic clashed and he knew the moment the Potter's magic began to falter. He saw a spark in the boy's eye that signified his awareness was returning and his magic soon overtook to the other's. He had his own magic surround and encase the boy cutting off his access to his magical core. Reflexively, he caught the boy as his body sagged from its magical exertion. It was clear this burst of magic had sapped the boy of the little strength he had regained. Surprised by his own actions he gently moved him back to the bed, this was the second time in 24-hours he had prevented to boy from collapsing to the floor. He shook his head, unsure where this care came from.

Regardless of what the true Prophecy may say, the boy was currently nothing more than that, a boy. A boy who had little knowledge beyond what was spoon feed to him. He stepped away from the bed keeping his eyes on the body sprawled out across it and slowly released his own magical hold on Potter's core, allowing Harry's magic to slowly filter back through his body. Harry groaned, and his eyelids fluttered.

This was becoming tiresome, it seemed every conversation he had with the boy resulted in his loss of consciousness. Waiving his wand he silently cast the tempus spell and sighed, seeing it was currently 9:16. He had other obligations to his time and the boy clearly was in no state for continued conversation.

"Keagan." He called lightly. There was the usual pop signifying the arrival of the small elf.

"Yes, Master Sir?"

"Be sure to watch Mr. Potter. When he wakes bring him some food and a nutrition potion, then come and alert me of his condition." The elf nodded, his oversized ears flapping as he bobbed his head.

"Yes Master, Keagan will watch Master Potter Sir, and find Master Dark Lord after he eats". He turned, intending to start on his day, but stilled at the words the elf spoke.

"Be aware Keagan, Potter is no more your master than my Death Eaters who roam these halls and you shall not treat him as such. He is not allowed to leave this room, nor are you to cater to his requests. Should he need something I will inform you of what it is and when he should receive it." The elf nodded but there was something behind the large eyes that unsettled him, he shook his head and turned, striding quickly from the room.

He would give Potter this last time to recover and the next time they spoke…well if the boy passed out again he would not be granted the brief reprieve a third time.

A/N: Please comment and tell me what ya'll are thinking.